


I don't wanna talk about it

by Blackboard_Monitor



Series: Totally not a Songfic [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Book 6: Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hogwarts Sixth Year, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, don't worry it ends well
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-21
Updated: 2017-05-23
Packaged: 2018-11-03 05:43:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 12
Words: 17,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10960902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blackboard_Monitor/pseuds/Blackboard_Monitor
Summary: Draco is supposed to kill Dumbledore and he's failing miserably at it. So much that he finds himself spending time crying in the bathroom. And Potter couldn't mind his own business if his life depended on it.Basically, this is my take on the Sectumsempra scene and how it could have turned out better. Drarry doesn't occur until quite late in the story.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I know I'm like 10 years late to this party. But I'm a recent Drarry-convert. Also, this is the first fanfic I've ever published, so don't yell at me it's not like I know what I'm doing. Thanks for reading in advance.
> 
> I don't know if people do this any more, but just in case: All of the characters and settings in this work are the intellectual property of J.K. Rowling and I did not come up with them. I'm just borrowing them a little because how do you write seven novels and not have one mention of anything LGBTQIA+?

“Do you have to chew so _bloody_ loudly, Goyle?”

Goyle turned to look at Draco dumbly, shepherd’s pie dribbling out of the corner of his mouth. “What?”

Draco bit the inside of his cheek, fighting back the urge to scream. How could they be so _stupid_? “Just… shut up.”

“Didn’ say noffin’,” garbled Goyle, turning back to his pie. Draco grimaced in disgust as the wet, sloppy munching resumed.

He turned his attention to his own plate, sitting in front of him, untouched. He picked up his fork and poked at a roast potato absently, with no intention of actually eating it. When did he last eat? He tried to think back, but the days blurred into an amorphous grey mass in his head, impossible to pick apart. Doesn’t matter, he decided. It couldn’t have been that long ago.

Abandoning his plate as a lost cause, Draco turned his attention to the Great Hall around him. There was the Slytherin table, with Crabbe and Goyle inhaling their dinner, Blaise talking to some fifth year girl, Pansy whispering about something with Millicent. None of them were paying any attention to Draco. It was like he wasn’t even there.

That was something he felt increasingly these days. That no one could see him, that he was a ghost, drifting through everyone’s ordinary, mundane teenage troubles, in another world entirely. Dating, Quidditch, sneaking out at night to nick firewhiskey from the kitchens – it was all so inconsequential. He couldn’t understand how they could care so much about things that mattered so little. They were all wrapped up in their tiny, senseless lives, hustling and bustling past him while he was standing still, frozen in the horror his life had turned into.

Draco’s gaze moved past their table, glazing over the Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff tables, lingering on the Gryffindor table – on Potter. He appeared to be engaged in a heated discussion with the mudblood and the Weasley. Draco was too far away to hear what they were saying, but really it wasn’t that hard to guess. Planning their next act of heroism, no doubt, he thought bitterly.

It wasn’t fair. Potter was always the hero. He didn’t even have to try, everyone just loved him. Flocked around him. He could get away with anything. And all the girls would go on about how brave he was, how much he had suffered. Draco had even heard Pansy say it. The audacity.

But what had Potter done, really, but manage to survive all the trouble he’d gotten himself into? People went on about his burdens. They didn’t know anything about burdens. None of them did, Potter included. Anything that Potter had done had been silly, childish mishaps, that paled in comparison to what Draco had been ordered to do. To what would happen if he would fail.

His chest felt tight at the thought, like there was a something heavy weighing him down, and he berated himself for thinking about it again. He needed to stop thinking about it and just do it. Except that it wasn’t like he hadn’t tried. Like he wasn’t trying.

Draco’s eyes wandered to the teachers’ table. Snape seemed to be watching him, but looked away when their eyes met. It was a while since Draco had demanded to be left alone with his mission; Snape was full of unhelpful ideas and he was just in the way.

Dumbledore’s seat was empty – another of his mysterious disappearances, no doubt. Draco couldn’t help but feel glad; he found himself avoiding the headmaster almost subconsciously. Whenever Dumbledore looked at him, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he _knew_. It was a stupid feeling, because how could he possibly know? And why would he let Draco walk around the school like nothing had changed if he did?

The fact of the matter was that Draco was getting paranoid. How could he not? He was running out of time, fast. The end of the school year was getting closer and closer and he was all out of ideas. Besides, Dumbledore was hardly ever there anymore. What if he just left and didn’t come back? What would Draco do then?

His thoughts were spiralling in tighter and tighter circles. His mother, his father, the Dark Lord, what he would do if Draco failed, Dumbledore, Snape, his father in Azkaban, his mother crying, Snape telling him to get on with it… And Potter, bloody Potter, who could never, never keep his nose out of anything.

Draco was vaguely aware of how shallow his breaths had become, of how shaky his hands felt, of the dull ache where the mark was that he knew had to be entirely imaginary. He had grown accustomed to the signs of panic setting in; he knew he had to get out because he was minutes away from making a scene.

He got up abruptly, ignored Crabbe’s full-mouthed “Where you goin’?”, and tried to exit the Hall as fast as he could without looking like he was running.

He leaned back against the cold stone wall outside, trying to catch his breath.

Why was this happening to him? He didn’t ask for this. It wasn’t his fault that the Dark Lord was disappointed with his father. It wasn’t his fault that he had been ordered to do this. He didn’t even _want_ to kill anyone. None of it was his fault.

But he was going to pay the price anyway. There was no good way for this to end. If he failed, he was as good as dead. So were his parents. The best he could wish for was that it would be quick, that he wouldn’t want to punish them more. To make them suffer.

And if he didn’t fail… His hand tightened around his forearm. This didn’t feel like the right future. And if he did this… It would be his only future. Come what may.

He was really shaking now, and breathing wasn’t getting any easier and, right on cue, there was the prickling in his eyes. He pushed himself off the wall almost forcefully.

This time he did run.

He bolted up the stairs, hurtled along deserted corridors and slamming blindly past the toilet door, coming to a crashing halt at the sinks, leaning heavily against the porcelain.

He was gasping now, struggling for air between huge, wracking sobs. The room was spinning and blurry with tears so he screwed his eyes shut and wished that he was dead, that all of this would just _stop_ already, that he didn’t have to exist any more.

It was almost frightening how frequent the thought was now. Not just in moments like this, but all the time. He could be in class, sitting in the Great Hall, lying sleepless in bed, and there it would be, out of the blue, unprovoked and unasked for.

_I wish I was dead_.

He would be up in the Astronomy tower and every time he looked out the window a voice in his head would tell him, _jump. If you just jumped this all would be over_. And he dismissed the thought because he would never make it out of the window before someone stopped him, and can you image what he would _look_ like, smashed against the rocks below like that?

But then he would be in Potions class and he was hyperaware of all the ingredients around him, of all the different ways they could kill him. And he would have to fight the urge to slip them into his pocket for later. For those moments so late at night that it was almost morning, when the rest of the dorm was asleep but he had woken from yet another nightmare, or had never fallen asleep at all. When he found himself twirling his wand in his hands; he knew the curse, so what if he just used it on himself?

“You come more often now. Do you miss me?”

Draco was half expecting the voice, but it still startled him.

“No,” he said hoarsely, “I don’t.”

Clearly it was the wrong answer, since Myrtle made an affronted noise and dove into a toilet behind him with a splash. Draco couldn’t be bothered to apologise. What did he need some mudblood ghost for, anyway?

He jumped back when the ghost reappeared out of the drain in front of him.

“Why are you crying again? Did someone hurt you?” she crooned.

Draco looked up at her and saw his face in the mirror behind her, distorted by her translucent body. His face was red and blotchy, his eyes bloodshot, his hair dishevelled. He turned away in disgust.

“Leave me alone,” he said, more to himself than Myrtle.

“I just want to help you.” She reached out a hand to touch his face and he shivered as it passed through his cheek.

Shaking his head, Draco backed away. “You can’t.”

He wiped his eyes hastily on his sleeve, praying he could get back to his dormitory without being seen.

“Wait! Don’t go!” Myrtle called after him, but he was already out of the door.


	2. Chapter 2

Draco stifled a yawn and poured himself a third cup of coffee.

                      “Gonna need to take a bath in that to get rid of those dark circles, Draco,” commented Pansy from across the table.

                      “Hmm?” Draco looked up, blinking. “What?”

                      “Your bags go down to here,” said Pansy and pointing at a spot halfway down her cheek.

                      “Whatever,” muttered Draco, ignoring the surprised look. There was a time when he would have been outraged at the jab at his appearance, but that all seemed like a long time ago. He couldn’t muster up the energy to care. He hadn’t even washed his hair.

                      Pansy shrugged and resumed her conversation with Millicent Bulstrode, the purpose of which appeared to be rating the sixth year Slytherins based on appearance. Draco stopped listening, his attention drifting to the teachers’ table.

                      Dumbledore was back, conversing with Professor Sprout over some scrambled eggs, with what seemed like not a care in the world. _He doesn’t know_ , Draco reassured himself. _Clearly he doesn’t_. But it did nothing to alleviate the uneasy feeling at the pit of his stomach. He pushed his half-eaten toast away, suddenly losing his appetite.

                      Draco nearly fell out of his chair when the letter dropped onto the table where his plate had been, narrowly missing his coffee mug. He hadn’t even realised that the owls had come in.

                      “Who’s it from?” asked Pansy conversationally, flipping through a fresh copy of _Witch Weekly_.

                      Tearing open the envelope, Draco was about to tell her to mind her own business, when he saw the first line and froze. The letter was in code, obviously, but he didn’t need to be able to read it to know that it wasn’t good.

                      “Bad news?” Millicent chimed in.

                      Draco realised his mouth was hanging half open. He forced his muscles back into life, clenching his teeth together.

                      “Draco?”

                      Ignoring the girls, Draco jumped up and stalked out of the Hall, gripping the letter so hard his knuckles were white. Once safely out of sight, he broke into a run, not stopping until he slammed the door of his dormitory behind him.

                      He knelt in front of his trunk and opened it. Hands shaking, he clicked open the secret compartment and fished out the key to the code. He had only had to do this once before, but the message wasn’t long. Decoding it was only a matter of minutes.

                      _Malfoy. Get on with it. He dies, or you do. My patience is running out._

                      A choked sob bubbled up somewhere deep inside him and there wasn’t a thing he could do to stop it from escaping. The letter slipped out of his limp hand and he fell forward, catching himself on the edge of the trunk. He leaned his forehead against the cool, smooth wood and closed his eyes, wishing more than ever that he could just fall asleep and never wake up again.

                      The image of the Dark Lord, red eyes and slit-like nostrils, plastered itself on the inside of his eyelids. _My patience is running out_.

                      Draco knew with a chilling certainty that this was it. He knew by now that he couldn’t do it, couldn’t kill Dumbledore. He had thought of every possible plan and none of them worked. Short of walking up to him in the Great Hall and hitting him with a Killing Curse, it couldn’t be done. And there was not way he would be able to do that in a room full of armed people. And he… he didn’t know if he could do it. Even if he got the chance. He tried to imagine himself pulling out his wand, pointing it at his face, tried to imagine speaking the words. He felt sick.

It was all over for him. For him and his parents. They were all as good as dead.

                      The next thing he knew he was crying, so hard he could barely breathe. His ugly sobs and gasps echoed around the empty dormitory and he knew he had to stop, to get up, because any of the other boys could come back at any moment and he couldn’t let them see him like this. No one could see him like this.

                      But he couldn’t bring himself to get up. He was exhausted. It was too much. He couldn’t do it. He just wanted to sleep.

                      There were voices outside in the common room. Draco didn’t know how long he had been in the dormitory, but it must have been longer than he thought, if breakfast had already ended.

                      Suddenly he could see himself from the outside, still kneeling on the floor, slumped over his trunk, sobbing like a child. An image of his father floated up from the recesses of his memory.

                      “Stop snivelling like a little girl, Draco. It’s pathetic.”

                      He can’t have been much older than six when he was told that, and here he was, ten years later, just as pathetic. Yes, that was what he was. Pathetic, and weak. It wasn’t that it couldn’t be done, it was that Draco was too weak to do it. Too stupid. A coward. Someone like Potter would have done it within the first week of school, no doubt. But he wasn’t a hero like Potter, or a genius like a the mudblood. He was a failure. He couldn’t get the closet to work, all of his other plans had failed. He couldn’t kill Dumbledore, and his entire family would die because of it. Because of how weak he was.

                      Draco clenched his hands into fists, the pain of his fingernails digging into his palms fuelling his anger. Suddenly furious, he pushed himself up, grabbed the letter and lit it on fire, watching it crumple and burn until the flames were licking his fingers.

                      As the last flakes of ash fell to the floor, the door swung open behind him. Crabbe and Goyle lumbered in, Goyle still chewing on something.

                      Draco turned, wand still in one hand, the other throbbing where the fire had burned him.

                      “I’m going to the Room of Requirement again,” he announced.

                      “Thought we gave up on that?” said Crabbe.

                      “ _We_ didn’t do anything, you moronic lump,” Draco spat.

                      Goyle squinted at him. “Why’s your face look like that?”

                      Draco got an unpleasant flashback of how he had looked in the bathroom mirror the other day. Trust this to be the one time Goyle noticed something.

                      “Yeah,” Crabbe chimed in, “it’s all blotchy.”

                      His anger flaring again, Draco pointed his wand and the lumbering boys. “Stupefy,” he said, and watched with satisfaction as Crabbe crumpled forcing Goyle to catch him.

                      “Hey! What’d you do that for?” protested Goyle as he struggled to lower the senseless Crabbe to the floor. Draco ignored him and walked past them to the door. Honestly, if he didn’t have to deal with such morons for help, he would have succeeded long ago.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And the plot thickens. I've actually finished this whole fic already but I'm posting the chapters not all at once because I'm mean like that.


	3. Chapter 3

It wasn’t working.

In fact, it was never going to work.

Draco ran his hands through his hair. He was exhausted. He hadn’t slept since the letter. Unless you counted when he fell asleep for a blessed half hour in Transfigurations the day before. Until McGonagall caught him and gave him detention. As if he didn’t have enough to deal with without having to spend Saturday night transfiguring teapots back into turtles.

And he couldn’t get the bloody cabinet to work. He kicked the wooden door in frustration. It hurt his toes, so he punched it instead. And then punched it again, satisfied with the thunk of his fist against the wood. And again, and again, until the skin on his knuckles cracked.

Rubbing his bruised hand, Draco left the Room of Requirement. The sun was setting, and the corridor was flooded with orange. It must have been just about dinner time, but food was the last thing on his mind. Unwilling to endure yet another pointless meal among classmates whose obliviousness infuriated him more every day, Draco took to wandering the halls aimlessly.

His thoughts kept returning to the letter, to his parents. His father especially, stuck in Azkaban, helpless to defend himself against whatever the Dark Lord chose to do to them once he realised Draco couldn’t do what he had ordered. _My patience is running out_.

Draco wasn’t really thinking about where he was going, which was why he turned a corner on the fourth floor and nearly rammed straight into Snape.

“I’ve been looking for you,” said Snape, grabbing Draco’s arm, like he thought he was going to try to run away. Which was infuriating, because he _was_ going to try to run away. So much for that.

“Well, you found me,” Draco said coldly.

“You’ve been avoiding me.” Snape’s tone was accusatory.

Of course Draco had been avoiding him. Snape’s presence was a constant reminder that he was being watched. In the beginning he had been glad to have someone to talk to about it, he hadn’t felt so alone. But he had understood soon enough that Snape wasn’t in it to help him, regardless of what he had promised his mother. Dumbledore thought Snape worked for him, and Draco’s mother thought Snape was protecting her son, but Draco knew that Snape had only ever served one master. He had no illusions about who it was that was reporting his progress, or lack of thereof, to the Dark Lord. All Snape really wanted was the Dark Lord’s recognition. He was angling to take up Draco’s father’s place as the favourite. No, he didn’t want anything to do with Snape.

“Well spotted.”

“Do you really think you can do this without me?”

“Like you were helping me so much before?” asked Draco.

Snape’s grip on his arm tightened. “You do know what’s going to happen to you if you let him down? And to Lucius? And poor Narcissa?”

“I’m not a child,” Draco spat.

“Aren’t you?” Snape asked, lips curling up into a humourless smile. “You had me fooled.”

Ignoring the voice in the back of his mind screaming _help me help me please please please help me_ , Draco wrenched his arm free and snarled, “Get the _fuck_ away from me.”

Before Snape had a chance to stop him, Draco bolted. He felt tears prickling in his eyes and the last thing he needed was for Snape to see him cry. It would be all the reason he’d need to let the Dark Lord know that there was no way Draco would ever complete his task. What was the use of a Death Eater who cried like child every time he failed? Every time he was afraid?

Draco sprinted down the corridor towards the stairs. He still had no idea where he was going. All he could think of was getting as far away from Snape as he could.

When he was sure Snape wasn’t following him any more – and too out of breath to keep running – Draco wrenched open the nearest door, slipped into the room and closed the door behind him. He leaned back against the door, gasping. Through a blurry veil of tears, he recognised the sixth floor boys’ toilets.

Slowly, when he trusted his legs to hold him up again, Draco stepped further into the room, catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror.

Pansy had been right, he looked like he hadn’t slept in a week. Which wasn’t far off from the truth, really. The bags under his eyes were so dark they looked like bruises, and his hair looked greasy and matted, a few strands plastered against his sweaty brow. Snape was right, too. He didn’t look like a Death Eater, he looked like a child. Frightened and lost.

For the umpteenth time Draco found himself wondering if the Dark Lord had ever really meant for him to kill Dumbledore. Maybe it was all some kind of twisted joke, a way to punish his parents for failing. Maybe the Dark Lord never wanted him to succeed, maybe he had always intended for Draco to die trying.

At this point, he almost wished he would. He had started out in the autumn with nightmares of Dumbledore figuring him out and ending his life in one quick flash. Now they had turned more into daydreams. But he couldn’t die. This pretence of a mission was the only thing standing between his parents and the Dark Lord’s wrath. He couldn’t die and he couldn’t give up.

Draco leaned heavily against the sink, succumbing to yet another fit of violent sobs. His head hurt and he couldn’t breathe and everything was falling apart. The future was like a gaping void waiting to swallow him and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

“Help,” he found himself breathing, not knowing who he was talking to, just knowing that he couldn’t keep doing this, living like this. “Help me. Help.”

“Oh, you poor thing,” hummed Myrtle from one of the stalls behind him. “So sad, so tragic. It’s _so_ romantic…”

Draco almost laughed. That anyone could consider his despair romantic was so absurd it was almost funny. Approaching hysteria, he just cried that much harder, his whole body shaking uncontrollably.

“Don’t…” Mytle crooned. “Don’t… Tell me what’s wrong… I can help…”

“No one can help me,” said Draco. His grip tightened against the porcelain of the sink as he realised how true that was. He had already failed, and it was only a matter of time before the consequences would catch up with him. “I can’t do it… I can’t… it won’t work… and if I don’t do it soon… he’s going to kill me…”

Talking was a struggle with how hard he was crying, and he ended up gasping, out of air and words. Trembling, he glanced up at the mirror, trying to see if Myrtle was still there.

But it wasn’t Myrtle looking back at him through the cracked mirror.

In the split second that it took for Draco to register the messy mop of black hair, brown face and bright green eyes behind ugly glasses, he felt his veins flood with burning hot rage.

 _Potter_.

Wasn’t it enough that everyone loved him? That he was the golden boy, the Boy Who Lived, who could have everything and get away with anything? That he would always live as a hero, when Draco was doomed to die and be forgotten, or be remembered as a failure and villain? That he had ruined Draco’s life, taken his father away, that he was in Azkaban because of him? Draco had one thing, this _one_ thing, this one place where he could be alone. And Potter couldn’t stay out of it. No, Potter had to take that, too.

All this went through his mind in less than a second, and in that time his body had swivelled around, his hand pulled out his wand, and now it was pointed at Potter. Draco barely had time to see that Potter had his wand out as well before firing the first curse. He was shaking so badly that he missed, shattering a lamp behind Potter’s head.

Potter dove aside and cast a wordless spell, which Draco deflected easily, countering with a hex that again missed Potter, blowing up a trash can behind him with a bang.

“Stop! STOP!” Myrtle was screaming, her voice echoing in the tiled bathroom.

Potter’s next curse missed as well, bouncing off the wall behind Draco and destroying a cistern next to Myrtle. The ghost was still screaming and now there was water everywhere. Potter slipped and fell, his wand flying out of his hand and clattering across the floor.

Drawing a huge, shaky breath, Draco pointed his wand at Potter, sprawled on the floor, grasping hopelessly for his wand, and shouted, like he had itched to do for so long: “Crucio!”

Potter froze, and Draco saw his eyes widen from across the room. _Didn’t think I would, did you?_ Draco thought with bitter satisfaction. Maybe before he wouldn’t have, even with how much Potter was begging for it. But at this point, what the hell did he have to lose?

There was a short moment when they were both frozen in place, waiting for Potter to convulse in unfathomable pain. And then the moment passed, and… he didn’t.

Draco stared blankly, as Potter slowly stumbled to his feet. He didn’t understand.

Until a small voice in his head reminded, _you have to mean it_.

 _I know_ , he thought. _I did mean it_. Of course he did. Hadn’t he wanted to do it for years now? To make Potter pay for being such an insufferable brat? To make him suffer? He had been so angry, and he had definitely, definitely meant it. So why didn’t it work?

Draco suddenly realised that the anger that had propelled him only seconds ago was gone. All he felt now was empty. And exhausted, more exhausted than he had thought was possible.

Potter took a tentative step in the direction of his fallen wand. In the back of his mind Draco knew he should stop him, but his wand had fallen limply to his side and he didn’t have the energy to lift it again. He barely had the energy to keep breathing.

_Why didn’t it work?_

“Not very good at that, are you, Malfoy?” said Potter as he picked up his wand, drying it on his robes. He sounded… amused.

No, Draco thought, he wasn’t very good at that. Or anything else. Unlike Potter, who was good at everything. Obviously.

All of a sudden Draco was on the floor, water seeping through his robes. He still couldn’t muster up the energy to move. His wand slipped out of his hand and fell onto the floor with a little splash.

“You,” said Potter decisively, “are a mess.”

Draco didn’t reply. Slowly, he let himself slip further down, until his cheek met the wet tiles.

He half expected – hoped, even – that Potter would curse him as he lay there, helpless and limp. But of course he didn’t, not Potter. He was too noble to hurt him when he was unarmed.

Draco didn’t know how long he lay there, or when Potter left, or when Myrtle stopped trying to talk to him. It was dark outside when he finally managed to pull himself off the floor. He picked up his wand and trudged to the dungeons through deserted corridors, shivering in his soaked robes. He collapsed into bed without undressing and fell straight into a restless, troubled sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See, all we needed was a little help from gravity and this scene could have gone so much better. Also, as you maybe can tell, a part of this chapter is directly from the book, but I only had the Finnish translation on hand so I had to reverse-translate. Putting any inaccuracies down to that.


	4. Chapter 4

Draco woke up the next morning and felt marginally better. It wasn’t that he was well-rested or anything like that, but waking up was an improvement from simply getting up after spending several hours tossing and turning, trying desperately to get his brain to shut off even just for a moment. Even with the nightmares, sleep was a welcome change.

Still, as he lay there staring at the ceiling, Draco couldn’t help but wonder what the hell he was supposed to do now. He wasn’t any closer to getting the closet to work now than he had been at the start of the semester. He had no options if he couldn’t get it to work. The clock was ticking and the end was only weeks away.

And then there was Potter.

Draco tried his best not to think about it, to push it out of his mind. But more than his parents, more than Dumbledore, more than the Dark Lord, it was Potter took over his thoughts. The knowledge that Potter had been there, had seen that, was almost unbearable. For anyone to see him fall apart like that was mortifying, and for it to be Potter of all people… It made Draco want to peel his face off.

And, he realised with a shudder, by now the whole school probably knew. Noble or not, there was no way Potter would hesitate for a second before telling his friends all about how pathetic Draco Malfoy really was. Draco stifled a whine and pulled his covers over his head. He could never show his face in public again. Never mind being tortured to death by the Dark Lord, he could never live down the humiliation.

Someone poked at his leg. “You comin’ to breakfast?” said Crabbe’s muffled voice from somewhere beyond the covers. He had finally given up sulking about the Stupefy-incident, then.

Draco shook his head empathically under the covers. “No. I’m sick. I’m not going to class today.”

He could almost hear the gears turning in Crabbe’s meaty head. “Hospital Wing?” he suggested eventually.

“Not that sick,” said Draco quickly.

“Okay,” said Crabbe. Heavy footsteps receded, and the door closed.

Warily, Draco emerged from under the covers and surveyed the room, finding it empty. Shivering in his still-damp robes, he got out of bed and rummaged through his trunk for a change of clothes. Hopefully the prefects’ bathroom would be empty while everyone was at breakfast. He needed to wash off all that filthy sewage water from the night before. And just feel _warm_ again.

There were blessedly few students in the corridors on the way to the fifth floor, but the ones that did see him gave him odd looks, confirming his worst fears. Draco felt nauseous. Potter had told everyone, then.

By the time Draco made it to the bathroom, he was fighting back tears again. He cast a locking charm on the door, not wanting to have to talk to anyone. Ever.

As he walked over to turn the taps on, he looked up at his reflection in the mirror, and stopped dead in his tracks, startled. Okay, maybe Potter hadn’t talked, after all. The way he looked was plenty to warrant strange looks from other students. His robes were wrinkled and stained, clinging to his body at odd angles. His eyes were bloodshot, his face puffy and his hair approaching Snape’s in greasiness. Disgusted with himself, Draco turned on the taps and peeled off his dirty robes.

Once the tub was full, Draco slipped into the scalding water with a small sigh of content. The steaming water instantly began melting the tenseness in his body, soothing a headache he hadn’t realised he had. He reached for the shampoo and slowly massaged it into his filthy hair, thinking that maybe if he just stayed here forever, everything would be fine.

His hair washed, Draco let his head fall back and just floated. The water was warm and smelled like lavender and he felt more relaxed than in weeks. He tried not to think of the Charms exam he was missing. His father was in Azkaban and they were both going to die soon; grades were hardly an issue any more. Somehow, floating back in the water, the knowledge felt assuasive. A heavy fatigue overtook his limbs one by one, and he drifted asleep…

And woke up minutes later, coughing up water and thrashing wildly for something to hold onto. Clearly drowning was a lot harder than advertised.

Dressed in fresh robes, his hair clean and brushed, Draco dropped off his dirty robes at the laundry. The corridors were full of students now, hurrying to the second class of the day, but no one looked twice at Draco. Although he couldn’t fathom why, it seemed like Potter hadn’t told anyone about their encounter the night before. But the fact that he hadn’t told anyone, Draco realised, didn’t mean he wasn’t going to. With every passing moment it became more likely that Potter was spreading the fact that Draco Malfoy spent his free time crying in the toilet.

But maybe there was still a chance to stop him.

The corridor was beginning to empty, which meant that there was only a few minutes left before the lesson started. Draco broke into a run, sprinting down the stairs towards the dungeons.

He caught up with Potter just outside the Potions classroom. Without stopping, he grabbed his arm and dragged him through a door posing as a stretch of wall into a deserted corridor.

Potter grunted as Draco pushed him against the wall, pointing his wand at his face. Potter tried to reach for his own wand, but Draco pinned him down with his other arm.

“Ow, Malfoy, what the hell?”

“We need to talk,” hissed Draco.

Potter wriggled, trying to free himself. “Okay, fine just, get _off_ me.”

Draco took a step back, but kept his wand pointing squarely between Potter’s eyes.

“What do you want?” snapped Potter, rubbing the spot where the back of his head had hit the wall. He sounded angry, but he looked more… uncomfortable? He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, refusing to meet Draco’s eye. This intimidation tactic was working better than Draco had anticipated, especially considering how hard his heart was pounding. He just had to keep Potter distracted so he didn’t realise that Draco had nothing on him.

“Did you tell anyone?” Draco demanded. His mouth felt dry and he wasn’t sure if he wanted to know the answer. “About yesterday?”

Potter glanced up at Draco and quickly looked away again, but didn’t say anything.

Draco stepped closer again, the tip of his wand pressing into the soft, brown skin of Potter’s cheek. “Answer me.”

Potter looked at him again, this time holding his gaze. “No,” he said, almost defiantly.

Draco barely suppressed a sigh of relief. Now all he had to do was make sure Potter kept his mouth shut for the foreseeable future. “Good. Keep it that way.”

Potter raised his eyebrows. “Or what, exactly?” He seemed annoyingly unfazed by Draco’s wand pressing into his flesh.

Draco swallowed, readjusting his grip on his wand. He hadn’t had time to come up with a good threat. He didn’t know anything about Potter to blackmail him, and he couldn’t use his Death Eater status as leverage because Potter wasn’t to know about it. He had nothing.

“You going to curse me, Malfoy?” asked Potter. “Cause I seem to recall it not going so well last time.”

That made Draco want to jam his wand through Potter’s obnoxiously green eye. “Tell anyone, and I mean _anyone_ ,” he snarled, “and I will make your life a living hell.”

Infuriatingly, Potter laughed. “First off, what do you mean, make? My life already is a living hell, Malfoy, has been for as long as I can remember. Second, do you really think you can scare me? You? I mean, I was never scared of you and I sure as hell am not now that I’ve seen you like—” he wiggled his eyebrows meaningfully “-- _that_.”

Draco felt himself deflating. It wasn’t going to work, just like nothing else ever worked. Potter was going to tell everyone, of course he was, and ruin what little was left of Draco’s life. He let his wand fall and stumbled backwards until he felt the reassuring solidity of a wall behind him. He stared at the floor, realising he had made it worse by adding this pathetic attempt at intimidation to Potter’s story.

“Tell you what, Malfoy,” said Potter softly. Draco jerked his head up, surprised that Potter was even still there. But there he was, eyeing Draco steadily. There was a cunning look in his eye that seemed very out of place, somehow. “I’ll cut you a deal. I won’t tell anyone if you tell me what you’ve been doing in the Room of Requirement all year.”

“How did you--?” Draco bit his tongue, realising too late that he had given himself away. But how could Potter possibly know? He couldn’t have been following Draco, he had made sure that he was never followed… And how, for that matter, had he happened to walk into that very toilet last night? Shouldn’t he have been at dinner? Draco felt his breath hitch and panic set in as his thoughts got away from him. How much did Potter know? Had he told Dumbledore?

Potter smirked. “Well?”

“I…” For a moment, Draco almost considered it. It was tempting. A part of him felt like if he just told Potter, all of this would go away. Bad things never seemed to stick to Potter. And he was the hero, after all. If Draco just made Potter a part of it, he would find a way to fix it. Everything would fall into place like it always did for Potter.

Then he imagined the Dark Lord finding out that he had revealed the plan to his mortal enemy. The thought alone made him recoil in wild terror.

“I can’t,” Draco breathed.

He though he could see a flash of disappointment cross Potter’s face. Maybe all he knew was where Draco had been?

“In that case I can’t help you.” Potter turned to go, but stopped suddenly. He stepped up to Draco. “One more thing.”

Potter moved so fast that Draco didn’t get a chance to open his mouth, let alone raise his wand. He grabbed Draco’s left wrist and pulled back his sleeve, revealing the Mark, startlingly black against Draco’s pale skin.

“I knew it,” Potter hissed. He dropped Draco’s arm like it was something filthy, turned on his heels and stalked off.

“Potter, wait!” Draco called after him weakly.

“I’m late for class,” said Potter without stopping.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At first I was panicking like Rowling never told us where Hogwarts students bathe but then I remembered Draco is a prefect. Problem solved :D Please leave me a comment telling me what you think because honestly I have no idea what I'm doing.


	5. Chapter 5

Draco made it through the rest of the day in a haze.

He gave Slughorn no explanation for how late he was, and sat through the rest of Potions in silence, letting the Ravenclaw he was paired with botch their potion, only moving to stop it from spilling on his shoes when it boiled over. He avoided looking at Potter, afraid to see him looking back, knowing what he knew. He lingered behind until the classroom was all but empty before he left his seat.

At lunch he ignored Pansy’s attempts at conversation, focusing instead on slowly shaping his mashed potatoes into a perfect cube with this fork. Despite his best efforts, his eyes kept returning to the Gryffindor table, staring at the back of Potter’s head, bent in heated conversation with his minions. Draco shuddered, knowing with a certainty what they had to be discussing.

Snape glared at him all through Defense Against the Dark Arts, but gracefully didn’t bother him as he stared blankly out of the window, not hearing a word of what was said. His hand kept rubbing at his wrist where Potter had grabbed him, wondering why the prat had to take all the same classes as he did. At least in DADA he was too busy being berated by Snape to cause Draco any more trouble.

By his last class of the day, Arithmancy, Draco’s hand had progressed from rubbing his wrist to scratching at the Mark. No matter how hard he tried to think of something else, he kept reliving Potter’s expression as he saw the Mark. He had looked angry, predictably, but also… disappointed?

Draco couldn’t understand why he kept obsessing over it, because what Potter thought of him being a Death Eater was surely irrelevant. He almost missed this morning, when all he had had to worry about was Potter ruining his reputation and the Dark Lord murdering his family. Now that Potter knew, everything was so much worse. Potter was probably telling Dumbledore at this very moment, while Draco just sat here uselessly listening to Professor Vector lecture about who knows what. At any moment now Dumbledore could burst in, to kick Draco out of Hogwarts, to send him to join his father in Azkaban most likely. After that, it was only a matter of time before the Dark Lord came for them. If he didn’t get to Draco before Dumbledore did.

He didn’t even realise that the class had ended until Vector approached his desk. “Is there problem, Mr. Malfoy?”

Draco flinched out of his thoughts. “What? No. Everything is fine, professor,” he mumbled, hurriedly packing his things and all but running out of the room.

The corridor was full of students, chatting excitedly about what they were planning on doing for the rest of the evening, arguing over which Bertie Botts flavour was the worst, discussing the best love potions and newest robe styles. Once again Draco was struck with the feeling that no one could see him, that he wasn’t real, or maybe he was the only one that was and everyone else was just a figment of his imagination. People kept bumping into him left and right, shoving him out of the way as he stood frozen in the middle of the corridor, more alone than he had ever been.

In that moment, Draco realised that this was it. He had tried and failed and kept trying and kept failing. Now it was only a matter of time before everything came crashing down. He had done the best he could and it hadn’t been enough, not even close. It was too much. This was his limit, as much as he could take. He couldn’t, wouldn’t keep going. And if they were all dead either way, what difference did it make? At least he could go on his own terms.

Suddenly the clamour of voices was far too loud for him, the lights too bright. Desperate to get away, Draco pushed through the crowd, crashing into the nearest toilet. A couple of frightened-looking first years looked up at him from the sinks. He drew his wand and growled, “ _Get out_.”

Once he was alone, Draco whispered, “Myrtle?”

Her head popped out of the drain at once. “What is it, my silver snake?”

Draco said nothing, trying to decipher why he felt the need to talk to the ghost. Maybe he just wanted to say it out loud?

“Ooh!” exclaimed Myrtle. “You’re not crying. Do you feel better?”

Draco barked out a humourless laugh. “No, no I don’t.”

Myrtle extracted herself from the sink and drifted closer. “What is it? What can I do?”

Draco drew a deep breath. “I’m going to die,” he said. Somehow it wasn’t as frightening now that it was a certainty.

Myrtle gasped. “Are you ill?”

Draco shook his head. “No.”

Myrtle titled her head. “Well,” she said, “I’m glad. It gets so lonely, you know… I’d be glad to have some company.”

“I can assure you, being a ghost at Hogwarts is the last thing I plan to do,” said Draco bluntly.

Myrtle clasped a hand over her heart. “How can you say that to me?” she cried, bursting into tears. “How can you cause me such pain?” Before Draco could stop her, she dove into a toilet with a splash and disappeared.

“Goodbye, Myrtle,” he muttered under his breath, and left.

In the end, it didn’t take him very long to get everything in order.

While the rest of the dormitory were at dinner, he sorted through his things, folding all his clothes neatly and organising his books and notes. He counted the coins in his purse and then tucked it safely away in the secret compartment of his trunk, not wanting the house elves pinching anything when he wasn’t around to notice.

As he straightened the picture of his parents on his nightstand, his father scowling and his mother waving slightly, he wondered briefly if he should leave her a note, but quickly decided against it. She would understand that he had no choice. Maybe the Dark Lord would spare her, if she made herself useful. He always like Aunt Bellatrix; Draco didn’t see why his mother couldn’t benefit from that.

It was barely past curfew when he was done. He wrote a short note, requesting that his belongings be sent to his mother, and placed it in a sealed envelope on the top of his trunk before he closed the lid.

An animated game of spin-the-bottle was taking place in the common room. Despite the fact that it wasn’t a game you could win, Pansy appeared to be winning.

“Where are you going, Malfoy?” someone shouted as he walked past.

“Out,” Draco said simply.

“It’s past curfew.”

“I’m a prefect.”

Outside the common room, the castle was blessedly quiet. Draco took his time walking to the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom. He was surprised how calm he felt, after all the crying and panicking. Sure, his hands were shaking, but he wasn’t afraid. Not any more.

As he slipped into the empty classroom, he wondered if Snape would feel anything when he found him, guilty for betraying his promise to his mother, anything really. He supposed that wasn’t really his problem any more.

All evening, as he had prepared for this, he had been expecting to have second thoughts. But here he was, wand in hand, nothing left to do – and he felt no doubt. He knew with certainty that this was the end for him, and he would rather go on his own terms.

Slowly, Draco lifted his trembling hand, until his wand was pointed at the centre of his chest. He drew a deep breath and closed his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember when I said I wouldn't make this overly dramatic? No, but I did say that to my dear friend and I was fucking lying :D


	6. Chapter 6

“Avada ked—umph.”

Draco felt an invisible weight slam into him, knocking his breath out and toppling him to the floor. His skull made painful contact with the floor and his wand flew out of his hand, rolling away. As he lie there gasping, Draco tried to understand what had happened. He was sure he hadn’t finished the spell, the best evidence of that being that he was still breathing, albeit with some difficulty.

Then the head and shoulders of Harry Potter appeared above him, followed by the rest of his body as he took off and cast aside an invisibility cloak. Through the colourful lights dancing across his vision, Draco registered that Potter looked absolutely livid. Which was absurd, because what did Potter have to be angry about? He was the one that had, yet again, ruined everything.

“What the _hell_ is _wrong_ with you!?” Potter snapped. “You could have died!”

 _No_ , thought Draco, _I would have died_. Furiously, he shoved Potter’s weight off of him and scrambled back on all fours, his ears ringing from the sudden movement.

“Leave me alone!” Draco’s voice cracked on the last word.

“Do you think I _want_ to deal with this?” Potter was pacing back and forth, waving his arms wildly, wand in hand. “Do you really think I have nothing better to do than stop you from… doing _that_?”

“You’re the one who followed me here!” Draco protested.

“You’re a bloody Death Eater!” shouted Potter. “What the hell was I supposed to do?”

“I don’t know, do the world a favour and let me die?” Draco said quietly. Potter stopped pacing and stared at him, eyes wide.

Ignoring Potter, Draco backed away until he could lean back against the wall. He wrapped his arms around his legs and curled into a ball, wanting desperately to be anywhere but here. To be anyone but him.

How had he managed to fail at this, too? At what point had his life gone so wrong that the only thing left to do was take his life, and he couldn’t even do that? He dug his nails into the Mark on his wrist, hard enough to break the skin. He hated every single part of himself, but that most of all. His eyes filled with tears once again and he didn’t try to stop it, couldn’t have if he wanted to. He cried hopelessly into the circle of his arms, too tired to keep fighting. He wasn’t angry any more, or afraid. He wasn’t anything any more. There was nothing left inside him.

Draco barely remembered that Potter was there, but if he had, he would have fully expected him to have left like he had last time. He nearly jumped out of his skin when he felt a hand settle tentatively on his shoulder.

“Go away,” Draco said hoarsely without looking up. “You hate me. Leave me alone. You hate me.”

The hand stayed where it was. “Maybe I do,” Potter said quietly. “I still don’t want you to die.”

Draco couldn’t help but look up. Potter was staring into the distance, looking tortured. His hand was still resting on Draco’s shoulder. He could feel the warmth through his robes and he shivered, realising how cold he was.

“I do,” Draco said.

Potter looked down at him and Draco was painfully conscious of how he must look, face streaked with tears. “What?”

“I want me to die,” Draco whispered, looking away. “I want to die.”

Potter made a noise like he was going to say something, but didn’t. Instead, he grabbed Draco’s wrist like he had before in the corridor. Draco winced as the fabric of his sleeve was pressed into the holes his nails had left. Then Potter pulled, and Draco had two options: to let himself be pulled to his feet, or have his arm yanked out of its socket. He chose the former as the less painful option, and ended up standing eye to eye with Potter, a step closer to each other than was comfortable.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” asked Potter. It was the same thing he had said earlier, but at the same time it wasn’t, because this time it was quiet, almost concerned.

“Everything,” said Draco, his voice breaking.

They stared at each other in silence for a long time. Draco wondered if Potter was thinking the same thing he was, that it was beyond bizarre how they had ended up here, the two of them who had loathed each other since the first time they met on the train.

“I’m taking you to the Hospital Wing,” Potter said eventually.

“No you’re not,” Draco argued, already imagining having to take off his robes and see the horrified look on Madam Pomfrey’s face when she noticed the Mark on his arm.

“Oh yes, I am,” declared Potter. “You can go peacefully or I can Leviosa you there. Your call.”

Draco realised that Potter was holding not only his own wand, but Draco’s as well. He was completely defenceless, which meant there was no point in arguing. In any case, he was too tired to put up a fight.

“Fine. But you get to be the one to explain this to her,” he said, yanking up his sleeve to reveal the Mark, now adorned with a series of bloody half-moon shapes where his nails had broken the skin.

Potter grimaced at the sight. “I don’t understand why you would let him do that to you.”

Draco almost laughed. “Do you honestly think I had any kind of choice,” he said flatly.

Either Potter was a brilliant actor, or he was thicker than Draco had thought, because he looked genuinely surprised. “Right,” he said. “I guess not.”

Draco waited, not really caring enough to do anything, while Potter ruffled his hair thoughtfully and then pointed his wand at the Mark, muttering, “This should work if…”

Potter cast a concealment charm. “There,” he said, “that should do.”

Draco studied his arm. It wasn’t a very good charm, all things considered, but you had to really look to see that the Mark was there. He supposed it wouldn’t be apparent to someone who didn’t know to look for it. “Fine,” he said again. “Let’s go.”

They walked to the Hospital Wing in silence, Potter half a step behind Draco like a warden. It was dark and quiet in the castle. It must have been very late.

“Do you know how much trouble you would be in if someone caught you out of bed?” Draco asked as they approached the hospital.

Potter laughed. “I’ve been out of bed later than this. And so have you, I reckon.”

Draco just shrugged, because he had.

Potter slowed as the door of the Hospital Wing came into view. Draco turned to look at him. “Having second thoughts?” he asked. “Because I _can_ just go back to my dormitory.”

Potter shook his head adamantly. “No. You’re going in there.”

“Well, let’s go, then,” Draco said wearily.

Madam Pomfrey was still up, making beds. Draco wondered if she ever slept.

“Goodness me!” she exclaimed when she saw them. “What are you two doing out of bed at this hour?”

Potter looked uncomfortable. “He tried to… you know…” he trailed off.

Draco rolled his eyes. “For the great hero of the wizarding world you are such a child, Potter.”

“Fine,” Potter snapped. “He tried to cast a Killing Curse at himself.”

Madam Pomfrey clasped a hand over her heart. “Oh you poor boy! You do know that that would never work?”

Draco glanced at Potter, who looked equally confused. “Wouldn’t it?”

“Heavens, no,” Madam Pomfrey said. “Those things don’t work – thank goodness – unless you really mean them.”

Draco exchanged another look with Potter and felt like they were both thinking the same thing: what if he did really mean it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry not sorry.


	7. Chapter 7

Draco jerked awake in the middle of the night, heart pounding. It was dark and the curtains around his bed were drawn, and for a moment he couldn’t figure out what had woken him. Then he felt it again – a light touch on the back of his hand.

“Malfoy?” whispered a voice beside him. Draco turned so fast he nearly gave himself whiplash. Harry Potter, of all people, was standing by his bed.

Draco jerked back, struggling to sit up.

“You should probably lie back down,” Potter said hastily.

“I’m not injured, you buffoon,” hissed Draco.

Potter scratched the back of his head sheepishly. “Right.”

Draco rubbed his temples. “Potter, what the _fuck_ are you doing here?”

“I… I came to see how you were?” It sounded like a question, like Potter wasn’t quite sure himself why he was standing next to Draco’s bed in the pitch dark Hospital Wing.

“Still alive,” snapped Draco. “Now leave.”

Potter shifted his weight awkwardly, but made no attempt to move.

“What do you _want_?” Draco hissed.

Potter was silent for so long that Draco thought maybe he had left after all, but when he glanced up, he was still there.

Finally, Potter said, “To help you, I think.”

Draco scoffed, hoping desperately that it wasn’t obvious how utterly confused he was.

There was an uncomfortable silence. After a while, Potter ventured, “Do you want to talk about it?”

Draco sputtered. “Do I.. _what_?”

Potter shrugged. “Wanna talk about it?” he repeated.

Draco was speechless. “Have you lost your mind?” he managed to ask.

“No,” replied Potter calmly, “but I think you might have.”

After another silence, Draco said, “No, Potter. I don’t want to talk about it.” He put as much venom as he could into the words, hoping it was dark enough that Potter couldn’t tell how red he was.

“Okay,” said Potter. After a while he added, “It’s okay, I don’t like to talk about things either.”

“Do I look like I care,” said Draco slowly, “about what you like?”

“It’s pretty dark, so it’s kind of hard to tell,” quipped Potter.

“I hate you,” Draco said weakly.

“So you’ve said,” said Potter.

Draco looked away, furious that Potter refused to fight with him. He didn’t know how to deal with this strange, unfamiliar Potter, who treated Draco like he was a human being and not dirt on the bottom of his shoe.

“Why are you being so nice to me?” asked Draco, vaguely aware that it sounded like an accusation.

“You know,” Potter replied sincerely, “I haven’t the faintest idea.”

“Well, do me a favour,” Draco said acerbically, “and leave me the hell alone while you figure it out.”

Potter recoiled like Draco had slapped him. “I saved your life, you know,” he said indignantly.

“I didn’t ask you to!” snarled Draco.

“Nobody ever asks me to!” Potter snapped.

“Then maybe you should stop saving people!”

“Keep your voice down or Madam Pomfrey will hear us,” Potter hissed.

“Good, maybe she can make you leave,” Draco said bitterly.

Potter threw up his hands in frustration. “Do you have any idea how selfish you are?”

“Some of us have to be because the world doesn’t just naturally revolve around us.” That, at last, managed to shut Potter up.

They glowered at each other and Draco was suddenly acutely aware of how close they were. He was sitting up in bed and Potter was leaning over him, close enough that Draco could feel his breath warm against his face. Which, he thought fuzzily, really should have been disgusting. He shivered.

“Go away, potter,” Draco said, appalled by how breathless he sounded all of a sudden.

The corner of Potter’s mouth turned up into a smile as he leaned even closer. “ _Make me_.”

Abruptly, without thinking – he would never do such a thing were he thinking –Draco reached up to grab the back of Potter’s head and closed the distance between them.

 _Why am I kissing Harry Potter_ , was his last coherent thought before his brain shut off because of how soft Potter’s lips were and how his fair felt wrapped around Draco’s fingers and how his heart threatened to beat out of his chest.

“ _Draco_ ,” Potter breathed and Draco felt himself crumble.

“Draco? Time to wake up, love.”

Draco opened his eyes. Madam Pomfrey was standing over him, smiling. The curtains were open and the room was flooded with sunlight.

 _It was a dream_ , Draco realised. “Fuck,” he said empathetically.

“Draco! Language!” Madam Pomfrey chastised.

“Sorry,” Draco mumbled, thinking, _come on, this too?_

“How are you feeling, love?” Madam Pomfrey asked, as she fluffed up his pillow.

“I’m fine,” Draco said distractedly. He glanced out the window. “What time is it?”

“Just past eleven. You slept for quite a while. You must have been exhausted, poor thing.”

“I’m fine,” Draco repeated.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to owl your mum for you, love? I’m sure she would want to come see you.”

Draco shook his head. “No. Definitely not.” The last thing he needed was to have to explain all this to his mother.

Madam Pomfrey didn’t look convinced. “Well, if you’re sure.” Then she brightened up. “At least you have your friend to look out for you.”

Draco frowned. “Friend?”

“Harry Potter,” said Madam Pomfrey. “He came to see you this morning. He was seemed very worried, but I told him it was best to let you sleep.” She shook her head. “I wish I saw less of that boy. Always getting himself into trouble, he is.”

Draco wasn’t really listening. Potter had been to see him. Potter had taken time out of his day to come to the Hospital Wing to see Draco. He ran his fingers over his lips, remembering all too well what dream-Potter had felt like.

Madam Pomfrey – thankfully – misread the gesture. She poured a glass of water from the jug on the bedside table. “Here, you must be thirsty.”

Draco wasn’t, really, but he drank it anyway. “Thanks.”

“No need to thank me, dear. Now you sit tight and I’ll fetch you a potion before I send you off to lunch. You need some meat on those bones,” Madam Pomfrey said brightly, giving him a pat on the arm before she bustled off.

Draco leaned his head into his hands and tried to clear his thoughts.

It wasn’t like he didn’t know how he felt about… well, how he felt about boys. He imagined he had always known, on some level, and it had become abundantly clear when his teammates started talking about girls in the locker room and he could barely listen, distracted by their eyelashes or forearms or how their hair fell over their face when they leaned forward to tie their shoes. So far, he had been dealing with this affliction just fine, with a carefully regimented plan of denial and letting Pansy pursue him for the look of things. It wasn’t really that difficult to push to the back of his mind, and whenever he felt tempted, he needed only to imagine what his father would say and he was back on track. Sure, there were the dreams, but that was hardly relevant.

But… Potter?

Potter, who he hated with a burning passion. Potter, with his arrogance and ugly glasses and infuriating hero complex and pathetic mudblood friends and messy hair and disturbingly green eyes and smooth, soft skin…

Shit.

 _Fuck_.

He fancied Harry Potter.

Draco groaned. He _really_ could have done without this right now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Be honest, did I have you fooled? :D


	8. Chapter 8

Once he had recognised them, Draco’s feelings became painfully obvious to him. Cheeks burning, he put together the pieces. Sitting in his bedroom at age 12, ranting to the house elf about Potter and how annoying he was. Walking back and forth in the train in their second year, getting more and more worked up because he couldn’t find Potter. Talking about Potter and how much he hated him for so long that Goyle fell asleep. Going out of his way to bump into Potter in the corridors, just so they could shout abuse at each other. Missing the Snitch in a Quidditch game because he was too busy glaring at Potter.

Honestly, Draco had no idea how he had managed to hide this from himself for so long.

The horrible thing was that nothing else had changed. He was still a Death Eater, his father was still in prison, he still had to kill Dumbledore. And Potter knew. Draco still didn’t know how much, but in any case it was more than enough to end Draco once and for all. He couldn’t figure out why Potter hadn’t turned him in yet and it was driving him insane.

At least he was sleeping now, thanks to a potion provided by Madam Pomfrey, and several teachers were being inexplicably lenient with him, suggesting that she had told on him. McGonagall went as far as cancelling his detention, giving some lame excuse of being too busy.

Still, within days, Draco was a nervous wreck. He was miserable like never before. He couldn’t eat, he couldn’t focus on anything, and he jumped at every noise, certain it was either Dumbledore or the Dark Lord, coming to get him. Even sleep brought little solace, because now in addition to the nightmares, he was plagued with dreams of Potter.

And Potter was bloody everywhere. Draco did everything he could to avoid him, ducking out of sight when he passed him in the corridors and skipping meals. It didn’t help that they had more than half of their classes together. When Slughorn paired them in Potions, Draco was forced to spill their half-finished potion all over himself just to get out. Thankfully there weren’t any major side effects.

At first Draco thought he was just being paranoid, but when he kept running into Potter in places where he had no reasonable excuse being, he began to suspect that Potter was actually following him. To test this theory, he skipped dinner and headed to the first place he could think of that Potter would have absolutely no reason to be, the astronomy tower.

Halfway up, he realised that it was probably not the best idea to attempt climbing eight hundred steps when he was running of two cups of coffee and a piece of toast. He was helplessly out of breath and starting to feel dizzy. Just as he was thinking that this was stupid, his foot slipped on the next step and he stumbled, catching himself painfully on his hands and knees. Groaning, he turned around and sat on the step, face in hands. What was he doing here? He should have been in the Room of Requirement, trying to fix the bloody closet.

As his breathing slowed down, Draco realised he heard something. The quiet but unmistakable sound of approaching footsteps. He looked up and couldn’t see anyone, but he knew now that that didn’t necessarily mean anything.

“Potter?” he called. The steps stopped. _Gotcha_ , thought Draco.

“Potter, I know that’s you,” he said.

For a moment nothing happened. Then the steps resumed and Potter appeared, stopping a few steps below him on the stairs. He at least had the grace to look a little embarrassed.

Draco stood up. “Will you stop following me?”

“I’d love to!” exclaimed Potter angrily. “Soon as you tell me what the hell is going on.”

“What makes you think it’s any of your business?” asked Draco. Which wasn’t terribly accurate, when he thought about it, because he was working for the Dark Lord. Potter seemed to come to the same conclusion, raising his eyebrows sarcastically.

“Okay, fine,” muttered Draco. “So why haven’t you told Dumbledore about me?”

Potter laughed. “Please, I’ve been telling Dumbledore about you all year.”

Draco’s breath caught in his throat. It was real, then. Dumbledore did know. He had known all along. “Why hasn’t he done anything?” Draco wasn’t sure if he had meant to say that out loud.

Potter sighed. “Hell if I know.”

Draco looked at him, surprised. In all his avoiding and agonizing, he hadn’t noticed that Potter looked almost as tired as he felt. He was staring off into the distance somewhere past Draco’s head, evidently deep in thought.

“What do you want from me?” Draco found himself asking. He flushed, remembering his dream at the hospital wing, and hoped that Potter didn’t notice.

Potter ignored the question. Instead, he said, “I asked Hermione. About the Killing Curse.”

Draco’s stomach dropped. “You told her?” he squeaked and then hated himself for how he sounded.

Potter looked up. “What? Oh, no. I didn’t. Just… hypothetically.” Unexpectedly, he laughed. “Actually, I think she thinks _I’m_ trying to off myself now.” The idea seemed to be highly amusing to Potter. Which made sense, Draco thought, considering how many times he had narrowly escaped death. If Potter had a death wish, he would have had no problem fulfilling it. Unlike Draco, who couldn’t even manage to kill himself properly.

“It would have worked,” said Potter quietly, interrupting Draco’s thoughts.

“Of course it would have,” Draco said impatiently, “that’s why I did it.”

Potter looked taken aback. “What happened?” he asked. “What happened that you would want to do that?”

Draco was startled by how sincere he sounded. Just like in his dream, Potter wasn’t following any script either of them were familiar with. They should have been shouting and hexing each other at this point, but here Potter was, asking him about his life like they were having a real conversation. Draco shifted his weight uncomfortably, thinking that he had to get out of this before he gave away something he shouldn’t. About the plan, or… about the other thing.

“That’s none of your business,” he said tautly.

“You made it my business!” Potter protested.

“No,” snapped Draco, “ _you_ made it your business. No one asked you to save me!”

“Well, I did it anyway!” Potter shouted.

Now this was more like it, Draco thought. This he could work with.

“I know it’s hard to understand when the whole world revolves around you,” he said coldly, “but sometimes it just isn’t about you.”

Potter went purple with rage. “Is that what this is about?” he hissed. “You’re jealous of me?”

“What?” sputtered Draco. “I would never—”

“I’d trade places with you in a heartbeat, you entitled little prat!” Potter cut him off. “Do you really think I _enjoy_ being ‘the boy who lived’? You think you’ve got it tough cause your daddy is in jail so you can’t go crying to him every time you stub your toe? At least you still have a father! You know what I have? An aunt and uncle who made me live in a cupboard until I was eleven! You have no idea about… about anything! You’ve never lost anyone! No one’s ever died because of you! You don’t have to wake up every morning knowing you and only you have to kill Voldemort, or die trying! So tell me, what is it, in your precious Death Eater rich boy life, that is so _terrible_ that I have to stop you killing yourself!”

Draco had never seen Potter like this. He was shaking with anger.

But so was Draco. He was in pain, at the end of his rope, and somehow Potter had still managed to make it about him. Draco was sick of it, sick of Potter, sick of everything.

With a wordless cry of rage, he lunged at Potter, knocking him backwards and sending them both rolling down the stairs. Through the painful fall, Draco found himself wishing that he would hit the steps at just the right angle and break his neck.

No such luck, of course. The toppled onto the landing below, Draco’s head slamming into the floor and Potter landing heavily on top of him. Without missing a beat, Draco pushed himself up and over, pinning Potter to the floor. His fingers closed around Potter’s neck. Potter flailed his legs feebly, trying to push Draco away, but he just tightened his grip, teeth clenching with the effort.

“I have to kill Dumbledore!” he grunted. Potter went limp beneath him, eyes widening. “Is that what you’re so desperate to hear? I have to kill him, or he’ll kill me! He’ll kill my whole family.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My biggest fear as a fic writer is writing something that's out of character but I think I've done an okay job at avoiding that? Also I decided to post all the rest of the chapters now because I'm going out of town for three weeks and I don't want to leave anyone hanging.


	9. Chapter 9

Potter tried to gasp for air, his mouth opening and closing. Instinctively, Draco loosened his grip.

“Dumbledore… would never…” Potter wheezed, trying to pry Draco’s fingers off his neck.

“Not Dumbledore, you idiot,” snarled Draco, “the Dark Lord.”

With a surprising amount of force, Potter pushed Draco away and scrambled back. Draco was startled to see bruises forming on his neck, not having realised he had squeezed that hard.

“Voldemort?” Potter managed to say between gasps. Draco couldn’t help but flinch at the name, fingers automatically digging into his wrist.

It was at this point that Draco realised how bad this was. He didn’t know how to Obliviate someone. He had no way of unsaying what he said, of erasing what Potter now knew. If before it was certain death that awaited him, now… Draco almost threw up. He couldn’t even imagine what the Dark Lord would do to him.

“You’re only sixteen!” Potter was saying, sounding horrified. “And Dumbledore is… he’s _Dumbledore_! That’s insane! He’s insane.”

Draco opened his mouth to ask if Potter had thought the Dark Lord was a pinnacle of sanity until now, but all that came out was a choked sob. He broke down in tears, not even caring that Potter was there. His dignity was long gone either way.

Potter was staring at him, eyes wide and still panting, like he was seeing him for the first time. “Malfoy,” he said quietly, “I’m sorry.” Draco looked into his stupidly green eyes and saw something he had never expected, or wanted, from Potter. Pity.

Potter shifted towards him, hands stretched out. Draco didn’t have willpower to move away when they landed on his shoulders. Potter shook him lightly. “Look, you don’t have to do it. You _can’t_ do it.”

“I know I can’t,” said Draco between sobs, “but I do have to.”

Potter shook his head. “There are ways to fight him,” he insisted.

Draco laughed, a small, pathetic sound. “You don’t know what he’s like.”

Potter’s eyebrows shot up. “Really?” he said. “You’re going to tell _me_ that?”

It was then that Draco realised that Potter did know. His position was just as bad as Draco’s; worse, if anything. After all, he was the great Harry Potter, who had defeated the Dark Lord before he was old enough to talk. He was the nemesis, the real goal, and Draco was just… what? A game? A tool? He was nothing to the Dark Lord. Potter was everything. Yet Draco was the one who was falling apart, who couldn’t stop crying, who was losing his mind. And Potter was trying to help him, even though Draco had always been nothing short of horrible to him. Because Potter really was noble, and brave, and so much stronger than Draco could ever hope to be.

Draco felt something break inside him. He fell forward limply, collapsing against Potter’s shoulder. Potter started, but didn’t pull away. Hesitantly, he placed his arms around Draco, hands resting flat against his back. Apparently having lost his restraint somewhere along with his sanity, Draco returned the gesture, wrapping his arms around Potter and holding on for dear life.

Shaking with tears, Draco buried his face into the fabric of Potter’s robes, trying not to think that he smelled good. Potter felt warm and soft, and Draco realised that he couldn’t even remember when someone had last hugged him.

“He’s not going to hurt you,” said Potter quietly. “You’re safe here.”

Draco knew he meant Hogwarts, in general, and not wrapped in Potter’s arms a landing halfway up the astronomy tower, in particular, so he should have disagreed. But right now, he did feel safe, safer than he remembered feeling since… well, ever. He wanted to stay there forever.

Draco hadn’t even realised that Potter’s hands were moving, tracing slow, soothing circles onto his back, until he stopped abruptly. Horrified, Draco realised the reason: without his knowledge, his fingers had crept up and wrapped themselves into Potter’s hair.

Potter pulled back, holding Draco at arm’s length by his shoulders. Mortified, Draco couldn’t meet his eye. Clearly, there was a line, and he had just vaulted right over it. His head was pounding and his face felt burning hot. He wished he could just fall through the floor and disappear forever.

“Why—” Potter cleared his throat. “Why did you do that?” He didn’t sound angry, but Draco still couldn’t look at him.

He pulled away and stumbled to his feet. “I have to go,” he muttered, stepping towards the stairs.

“Malfoy, wait!” said Potter. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

Draco stopped and turned around slowly. Potter was looking up at him from the floor, cheeks flushed.

“It was…” Potter trailed off and looked down at his hands. “Nice,” he finished, lamely.

Draco’s legs felt weak, so he sat back down next to Potter. _Say something_ , he screamed at himself, but he had never been at such a complete loss for words.

“You came to see me. In the Hospital Wing,” said Draco. It was a stupid thing to say.

“What’s that got to do with anything?” asked Potter.

Draco looked at him. “Why?”

“I… don’t know,” said Potter, avoiding his gaze. “I was worried.”

“But you hate me,” Draco pointed out.

“Yeah, well, you hate me, too, and you touched my hair,” Potter said defensively.

Draco swallowed, not sure what to say to that. What he could possibly say to redeem himself. His heart was pounding and his mouth was dry and he didn’t know what he wanted more, to run away or to have Potter’s arms around him again.

Potter groaned and buried his face in his hands. Draco couldn’t help but think he must be getting fingerprints all over his glasses.

“I have no idea what’s happening,” Potter said into his palms.

“Me neither,” Draco lied. He had a pretty good idea what was happening but he didn’t quite dare believe it. “Potter?”

Potter lowered his hands cautiously. “Yeah?”

“Thank you. For…” Draco made a sweeping gesture, trying to signify everything that had happened in the past week. “For everything.”

Before Potter had the chance to say anything, they heard the door at the base of the tower opening and heavy footsteps begin their ascent, accompanied by muttering.

“Filch,” Potter hissed, jumping to his feet. Draco followed suit as Potter raced up the stairs to pick up the cloak he had dropped earlier. He pounded back down three steps at a time.

“Who’s there?” echoed Filch’s voice from below them.

Draco’s eyes darted wildly around the landing, looking for an escape. “What are we going to—” His sentence ended with a winded grunt, as Potter slammed into him and pushed him back into the wall, throwing the invisibility cloak over them in one fluid motion. Draco opened his mouth to protest, but Potter clapped his hand over it, pressing a finger to his own lips.

Draco felt lightheaded. There wasn’t a lot of room for air under the cloak, and Potter’s hand on his mouth wasn’t helping. Neither was the fact that Potter’s body was pressed flush against his, radiating heat and pinning him against the wall. His heart was beating so fast he wondered if Potter could feel it through both of their robes.

Filch’s footsteps came closer and closer. When they paused on the landing, Draco stopped breathing. He could see over Potter’s shoulder through the translucent cloak, how Filch stopped on the landing and looked around. Then he grunted, and continued up the stairs. Draco exhaled, realising too late that he was blowing air straight into Potter’s hand.

They waited for a moment longer in silence, until Filch’s footsteps had receded almost out of earshot. Then Potter removed his hand and whispered, “Run.”

Draco didn’t know if he took Potter’s hand, or if Potter took his, but the next moment they were hurtling down the stairs, hand in hand. They blew through the door into the corridor and kept running, not stopping until two floors down, when Potter stopped abruptly and pulled Draco into the shadow of a statue of a sour-looking witch.

“Do you think we lost him?” Draco panted.

“Definitely.” Potter laughed breathlessly. “Don’t look so worried, I’ve done this loads of times.”

Draco noticed that Potter was grinning, and his own lips were twisted into a smile that felt unfamiliar on his face. They were pressed close together again, with Potter against the wall this time, Draco’s hands leaning onto the rough stone on either side of his face. Which was only inches apart from Draco’s.

He was going to pull away, he really was, and walk back to the dungeons and pretend none of this ever happened. But then the moon slid out from behind a cloud, illuminating Potter’s face through the tall windows, his eyelashes casting long shadows onto his flushed cheeks, and Draco realised that there was absolutely nothing left to lose.

He squeezed his eyes shut, leaned in, and kissed Harry Potter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After I finished this chapter I realised that the reason why I'm single is probably that it takes me roughly 13 000 words to build up to a kiss lmao.


	10. Chapter 10

The world came to a grinding halt as their lips met.

Draco felt Potter’s sharp intake of breath as he froze, mouth a tense line against Draco’s. Draco kept his eyes closed tightly, afraid to move, afraid to breathe, hoping against hope that he could have this, that the universe would just give him this one thing.

Then Potter moved, lips parting with a soft exhale, one hand wrapping around Draco’s waist, the other grabbing the back of his head, pulling Draco closer. He tasted like chocolate and laughter and felt like home, but no home Draco had ever known. Draco’s hands shifted off the wall, cupping Potter’s face in his palms, fingertips weaving into his messy dark curls, desperate for more.

Draco had never really kissed anyone before. Not like this, at any rate. There had been two or three incidents with girls, but they had been more like quick pecks that made him feel nothing. But this… this made him feel everything. All his senses were filled with Potter, the way he felt and smelled and tasted. And it still wasn’t enough, he wanted more, to be closer, to hold on tighter. Nothing had ever felt so good, so right. His heart was going to explode with the force of it.

It was then that Draco realised he had made a huge mistake, because there was something to lose after all. After this, how could he ever go back to ignoring this, to pretending he didn’t feel this? Draco’s eyes snapped open. Abruptly, he pulled away, backing into the statue and banging his head painfully on its elbow.

Potter stared at him, lips still parted, hands falling to his sides from where they had been holding Draco. He looked breathless, bewildered, a little hurt even – and so beautiful that Draco wanted to cry.

Potter cleared his throat, “What…?” he started hoarsely and then trailed off.

“I have to go,” Draco said. Tearing his eyes away from Potter was almost physically painful.

He turned an ran, thinking _what have I done what have I done what have I done_.

He was almost at the end of the corridor when Potter called, “Malfoy! Come back!”

But Draco didn’t stop. He couldn’t stop. For a minute there he had actually believed that everything was going to be fine, that Potter would help him, that somehow he could be saved. But then he had gone and ruined everything, made it so much worse.

Fancying a boy, even a boy like Harry Potter, was one thing. It was private, a secret, something no one had to know. But acting on it… How could he do something so wrong? He imagined what it would be like if his father ever found out he had kissed a boy, and he wanted to die all over again. And that, he realised wasn’t even the worst part. He, a Death Eater, tasked with the murder of Albus Dumbledore, had just snogged Harry Potter, the Dark Lord’s greatest enemy, against a wall in a public corridor. His father disowning him seemed almost desirable next to what the Dark Lord would do to him if this got out.

Draco had to stop and lean against a suit of armour, retching. Everything about this was beyond catastrophic.

And somehow, the part that bothered him the most wasn’t that the Dark Lord and his father were going to fight over who got to kill him slowly and painfully. For some reason the thing that felt like a lump of cold steel where his heart should have been was the knowledge that Potter was going to _hate_ him. Which was absurd, because Potter already hated him, had always hated him. And he hated Potter. Everyone knew that.

Except tonight it hadn’t felt like they hated each other. Or when Potter had saved his life. Or when he had visited him in the hospital. It had felt like maybe they had more in common then they ever realised, that maybe some day, they could even be friends.

Until Draco had ruined everything, that is. By doing something so disgusting. Objectively, that is. Because subjectively, it had been the most beautiful, precious thing he had ever experienced. Draco shook his head angrily. He had to stop thinking like this.

Now Potter was going to despise him like never before. If he had been holding back before because some kind of responsibility to save Draco, he had no reason to do that now. On the contrary: this was going to make Potter want to get rid of him as soon as possible, no doubt. And Draco had given him get another weapon against him. Not only was he a Death Eater, plotting the murder of the great Albus Dumbledore, but he was some kind of… pervert as well.

Draco wasn’t sure how he got back to the dungeons. He snapped out of his thoughts when he stepped into the common room and found it not deserted, but full of students, chatting, playing games, doing homework. It wasn’t as late as he thought it was, and he wondered briefly if they had even needed to run away from Filch, if it had even been past curfew at that point.

It felt surreal to see so many people all of a sudden. For a while Draco and Potter had been the only people in the world. There was something fundamentally wrong about all these people sitting here, laughing and talking, living their lives like nothing had happened, like the whole universe hadn’t just turned upside down. Draco wanted to hex all of them.

“Where the hell have you been?” Blaise Zabini commented from across the room. “You look like you swallowed a flobberworm.”

Draco wanted to be angry, wanted to rant and rave at these idiots, these stupid children who didn’t understand anything about anything. But instead of boiling rage, he felt tears building up. “Fuck off, Zabini,” he snapped feebly, and stomped past everyone into the dormitory. He didn’t close the door fast enough to avoid hearing a muttered, “Bloody bonkers, that one.”

Draco uncorked Pomfrey’s sleeping potion, and instead of measuring out the right amount, he just took a generous swig. Fully clothed, he crawled into bed, and cried himself to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It annoys me that we don't know the names of more Slytherins. Also, I'm good at the angsty stuff but pretty dang bad at the fluff so sorry if it's cringey. I'm 21 and I've never kissed anyone the heck do I know about anything.


	11. Chapter 11

Draco woke when someone slapped him in the face. His eyes snapped open in a panic, but it quickly shifted into irritation once he saw who was standing over him.

“Goyle, what the _fuck_?” he groaned.

“Told you he wasn’t dead,” Goyle said over his shoulder to Crabbe.

“Why would I be dead?” Draco asked irritably. Of course, there were plenty of reasons, but Crabbe and Goyle needn’t know that. He rubbed at his smarting cheek. He was fairly certain Goyle hadn’t _meant_ to hit him very hard, but he was Goyle, so Draco expected half his face to be purple before long. Wonderful, that wouldn’t raise any unwanted questions.

“How much of this did you drink?”

Draco jumped and turned around. He hadn’t realised Zabini was standing on the other side of his bed. Zabini held up the bottle of sleeping potion gingerly, and waved it in front of Draco. “Well?” he prompted.

“The normal amount,” Draco snapped, glaring at him.

Zabini raised an eyebrow cynically. “Malfoy, the normal amount of sleeping potion is none.”

“What the hell is it to you, anyway?” Draco asked, flushing, furious at himself for not putting the potion away before he fell asleep. “Shouldn’t you be at breakfast?”

“Breakfast?” echoed Crabbe.

“It’s lunchtime,” Goyle said helpfully.

“Finally learned to tell time, did you?” Draco said to cover up his disorientation.

“You’ve been out cold since last night,” Zabini said.

“I’ve missed two classes?” asked Draco, startled. Even Goyle looked at him like he was dim.

“It’s Saturday, Draco,” said Crabbe.

Right. Yesterday had been Friday. That would make today Saturday. “Oh,” Draco said feebly.

“Definitely gone off his rocker,” Zabini stage whispered to Crabbe and Goyle, who had the audacity to laugh.

Draco jumped out of bed, furious, and shoved Zabini hard enough that he stumbled backwards and hit his knee on Draco’s nightstand.

“I’m sorry,” Draco said coldly, “I didn’t _hurt_ you, did I?” As he spoke, he reached over to snatch the sleeping potion from Zabini’s hand, pointedly flashing him a glimpse of the Mark on his wrist. To his satisfaction, Zabini flinched, his grin dying on his lips.

“Now,” Draco said, forcing his aching face into what he hoped was a vicious smile, “I suggest the lot of you learn to mind your own business.” With that, he stalked out, robes flapping, and headed for the prefects’ bathroom.

Half an hour later, Draco was staring at himself in the slightly foggy mirror, brushing his hair. An ugly bruise was blooming on his left cheekbone, a stark contrast against his pale skin. Clearly, it wasn’t going to be a good day.

At this point, Draco reflected, he didn’t have a lot of options. He could keep trying to fix the closet, in the faint hope that he could get it to work and get the Dumbledore thing over with before Potter destroyed him with the truth. In any case, he was going to have to take his Potter-avoiding to the next level.

Which was a fine plan as long as the weekend lasted, because he could just hide out in the Slytherin common room or the Room of Requirement, but once Monday arrived, he ran into trouble. Or, more specifically, Potter.

Somewhat pointlessly, Draco skipped breakfast and headed straight for the Charms classroom, ignoring his body’s desperate pleas for coffee. But of course, Potter was in his Charms class. And his Transfiguration class. And Potions, and DADA. So avoiding him completely would have meant not going to almost any of his classes, and Draco suspected he couldn’t keep that up for very long.

Fortunately, Potter was late to Charms, muttering apologies to Flitwick and rushing to his seat on the opposite side of the room. Draco stared at a knot in the wood of his desk, painstakingly counting the rings to avoid the temptation of looking. But, once they were well into practising advanced vanishing charms, and he was sure no one would notice, Draco caved and stole a furtive glance in Potter’s general direction. Which was a mistake, obviously.

There were rows of dark bruises on either side of Potter’s neck from where Draco’s fingers had been, noticeable from all the way across the room. Draco dropped his wand mid-spell. Why hadn’t the moron worn a scarf? A high collar? A concealment charm?

An ear-shattering crash, followed by a window-cracking shriek, made Draco realise that he had bigger problems at the moment. His falling wand had vanished one of the legs of his desk, and now the whole thing had come crashing down, landing heavily on one of the Patil twins’ foot. She was jumping on one foot, clutching the other one and firing a colourful string of expletives at Draco. Every single pair of eyes in the room were burning into him. Resisting the urge to throw himself out of the window, Draco picked up his wand and hastily repaired the desk.

Flitwick hurried over. “Miss Brown, please help Miss Patil to the Hospital Wing,” he said. “And Mr Malfoy, please try to pay attention. I’m afraid I’m going to have to subtract five points from Slytherin.”

Draco could still feel everyone’s eyes on him, expecting him to protest and make a scene. “Sorry, Professor,” he said quietly, and sat down. There was a collective sudden intake of air, and even Flitwick looked aghast.

Draco made it through the rest of Charms without incident. He hid out in the second floor toilets until Potions and sat as far away from Potter as possible, not looking up from his cauldron once the whole time he was in the room. He just had to keep his head down and it would be fine, surely.

Then disaster struck at lunch. Feeling a bit lightheaded, Draco braved the Great Hall, inhaling a bowl of stew in what he knew was a very uncharacteristic – and uncivilised – manner. He was still chewing the last mouthful as he jumped up and hurried out, heading outside into the cold and windy afternoon, hoping that most people would have the sense to stay inside where it was warm. But he still wasn’t fast enough.

“Malfoy! We need to talk!”

“No we don’t,” said Draco and kept walking, quickening his pace.

Potter caught up with him anyway and grabbed his arm, forcing him around. Draco stared at the grass under their feet, suddenly terrified to meet Potter’s eye.

“What happened to your face?” Potter asked.

Draco’s fingers automatically went up to his cheek, prodding at the soreness. “Leave me alone, Potter.”

“No,” said Potter. “I won’t.”

Draco couldn’t help but look up. Potter’s eyes were flaming, his hands balled into fists. Draco took an involuntary step back.

“Look, Potter, I’m sorry,” he said quickly. “I’m sorry, it’ll never happen again, please believe me, I didn’t—“

“I’m not,” said Potter fiercely.

Draco stopped mid-apology. “What?”

“I’m not sorry,” Potter clarified.

Draco blinked. He had no idea what that was supposed to mean. What would Potter have had to be sorry about? He wasn’t the Death Eater who went around crying against their worst enemy’s shoulder and then snogging them uninvited. Draco realised that he was shaking, not because of the biting wind, but because he was actually, genuinely terrified of Potter. Of what he would do to Draco.

“Can we just—“ he tried to say, but Potter cut him off.

“Draco, you insufferable prat, for once would you just _listen_?”

Draco was pretty sure his heart actually stopped. “What did you just call me?” he stammered. He was confident that that was the first time Potter had said his first name, ever.

“An insufferable prat, and I stand by it! You’re driving me insane with the avoiding and the glancing and the pretending you weren’t glancing and—“ Potter ranted.

“No,” Draco interrupted, “before that.”

“What, ‘Draco’?” asked Potter. “Is that really what you want to focus on right now?”

“You don’t call me Draco,” Draco said, somewhat obviously.

Potter closed his eyes and ran both hands through his hair. “Christ, Malfoy,” he groaned. “I’ve saved your life and held you while you cried and bloody _snogged_ you, what does it _take_ to get on a first name basis with you?”

Draco’s eyes darted around the grounds, making sure they were still alone. “Keep your voice down,” he hissed.

“What, you can snog me in public but I can’t talk about it?” asked Potter.

“ _Stop using that word_ ,” Draco said desperately.

They glared at each other, fuming. Draco wanted to grab Potter by his robes, slam him into a wall and kiss him until he saw stars. He grimaced. That wasn’t where that thought was supposed to go.

“Fine,” said Potter bitterly. “So I guess this really was just your newest way to mess with me.” For a moment, Draco saw something in his eyes that wasn’t hate, or anger, but… hurt?

Before he had a chance to process that, Potter had turned and was quickly retreating back towards the castle.

“Potter!” Draco called after him. “Where are you going?”

“To tell Dumbledore everything!” Potter shouted without stopping.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It would appear that I'm entirely incapable of ending a chapter with anything other than a cliffhanger.


	12. Chapter 12

For a split second Draco was frozen in place. He could feel the world crumbling beneath him. Then he forced his legs into action and sprinted after Potter.

“Potter! Wait!”

“Go to hell, Malfoy!”

Potter sped up, breaking into a run. Draco cursed under his breath. He knew Potter was faster than him. He did the only thing he could think of.

“Harry, stop!” he shouted.

Potter stopped abruptly. _Wow, can’t believe that worked_ , Draco thought absently as he caught up with Potter, grabbing his arm to stop him from running again.

“Potter,” Draco said, out of breath and trying not to sound too desperate. “Don’t do this.”

Potter tried to wrench his arm free, although the effort seemed a bit half-hearted. “Let go of me, Malfoy,” he spat.

Draco yanked on the arm, forcing Potter to turn around and look at him. Or glare, rather. “Please. You said you didn’t want me to die.” Draco was aware that he was openly pleading now. But it wasn’t like Potter had left him with much of a choice.

“I told you before, Dumbledore won’t kill you,” said Potter.

“No,” Draco said, “but he’ll kick me out and then the Dark Lord will.”

Potter didn’t say anything. He looked away, but Draco though he could see his scowl soften a little. “You know it’s true,” Draco prompted.

“Well, what if it is?” Potter exclaimed. “So you die. Isn’t that what you wanted to begin with?”

Draco was genuinely surprised by how much that hurt. A few weeks ago Potter wanting him dead would have been pretty much business as usual, but now it felt like a stab in his chest. “No,” he said. But he had, hadn’t he? “Yes. I don’t know.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t try to fucking kill yourself, then!” Potter shouted.

Startled, Draco dropped Potter’s arm. He didn’t understand why Potter was so angry. He was confusing. Saving Draco’s life, threatening to turn him in, yelling at him for trying to kill himself. Draco couldn’t figure out what he wanted.

There was something nagging at him, in the back of his mind, something Potter had said earlier. Something that seemed significant, even if he had no idea how. “What did you mean when you said you weren’t sorry?”

Potter frowned. “What?” he said distractedly.

“You said you weren’t sorry. Sorry about what?” Draco asked.

“About…” Potter threw his hands up in frustration. “About anything! Anything that happened.”

Draco didn’t understand. “But I’m the one who—“ he tried to say.

“Do you honestly think I would have let you… if I didn’t want to…?” Potter said defiantly, ruining the effort by staring at his shoes.

Draco was almost certain that the world titled. He staggered, catching himself on Potter’s shoulder. “I need to sit down,” he said.

He stumbled over to the nearest tree and slid down its trunk, hoping as his bottom hit the grass that it wouldn’t stain his robes. To his surprise, Potter followed him, stopping a few feet away.

“You…” Draco cleared his throat. “You’re telling me you _wanted_ to… kiss me?” The words sounded bizarre even as he said them. He didn’t understand anything anymore, and he wondered briefly if this was another of his dreams. He decided probably not, because he had never had a dream that was this supremely awkward.

“Well, it’s not like I planned it!” Potter exclaimed. Glancing up at him, Draco realised he was blushing furiously. At least Draco wasn’t the only one.

“But, well, it happened,” Potter continued, “and it felt… right. So I did.”

There was a long, drawn-out silence, during which both of them refused to look at each other. Finally, Draco said, “What do you _want_ , Potter?”

Potter shrugged noncommittally. “I don’t know,” he said, “to talk about it?” When Draco didn’t reply immediately, he went on, “I don’t know about you, but I don’t go around kissing other boys every day. This was a first, actually.”

Draco flinched. “How can you… How can you just _say_ that? Out loud? Like it’s nothing?”

“It’s definitely not nothing,” Potter said. “Why are you being so weird about this?”

“Why aren’t you? It’s fucking weird!” Draco cried, hiding his face in his hands. “And, and, bad. And wrong.” He felt like he was going to cry. Again. Maybe he was allergic to Potter.

“I don’t think it’s wrong,” said Potter. “A little weird, granted, since we’re supposed to hate each other. But not bad.”

Draco didn’t respond. He was too busy fighting back self-loathing and tears. Then he heard Potter walk up to him and felt their shoulders brush together when he sat down next to him.

“Malfoy,” Potter said carefully, “are you gay?”

Draco looked up to see Potter looking at him curiously. “What?” he asked, not sure if he’d heard right.

“Are you gay?” Potter repeated, looking a bit bashful.

“What, as in happy?” said Draco, confused.

“No, you idiot,” Potter said affectionately, “as in homosexual.”

Draco looked at him blankly. He didn’t have the faintest idea what Potter was talking about.

Potter frowned. “Homosexual?” he repeated. “Attracted to the same sex? Instead of the opposite sex?”

All Draco could do was stare at him. “Is that a thing?”

“Well, it is in the muggle world,” said Potter, picking absently at the grass. Draco thought he could pick out a trace of uncertainty in his voice.

“How do you know?” he asked, sceptically.

“Heard it on TV. Briefly, until Uncle Vernon changed the channel,” Potter explained.

Draco tried to remember what a TV was, then realised that that was inarguably the least important part of what Potter had just told him. Slowly, he felt an unexpected feeling of warmth building up inside him, despite the biting wind. There were other people like him, somewhere. Granted, they were muggles, but still. A huge wave of relief washed over him and he wanted to hug Potter. Instead, he allowed his hand to snake over and wrap cold-numb fingers around Potter’s.

Potter stiffened at first, but then relaxed into the touch, squeezing Draco’s hand lightly. “Well, are you?” he asked.

“I think I might be,” Draco said slowly, feeling light as a feather. “I didn’t know there was a word for it. I thought I was the only one.”

Potter laughed. He still looked a bit flushed, but he was smiling now. “You definitely aren’t, I can promise you that much.”

“Are _you_? Gay?” Draco asked.

Potter scratched his head. “I don’t think so,” he said. “I mean, I liked kissing you, but… I also liked Cho Chang last year?”

Draco wasn’t sure what to say to that. Everything was new and unfamiliar, but in a good way, and he felt strangely giddy. “Maybe you can be both?” he suggested.

“I don’t know,” Potter confessed. “Maybe I should ask Hermione. She usually knows everything.”

“Don’t,” Draco said quickly.

“Why not?” Potter asked, like he really didn’t know.

Draco rolled his eyes. “She may be a mudblood—“ Potter whacked him on the arm, but Draco ignored him “—but she’s not an idiot. If she didn’t buy the Killing Curse thing as a hypothetical, do you really think she’ll buy this.”

“You’re probably right,” Potter mused. “But she’s my friend. She’s not going to judge. Or tell anyone, if I ask her not to.”

A humourless, incredulous laugh escaped Draco’s lips. “I wonder what it would be like to have friends like that,” he said, more bitterly than he had intended. He glanced at Potter, catching a glimpse of that look in his eyes again: concern and pity. Draco decided that he didn’t mind, because Potter reached up behind his head, fingers lacing into his hair in a way that felt divine, and pulled him into a kiss.

It was different this time, slower, softer, more contemplative. But just as good; better even. Draco was cold from the wind and Potter felt hot, like he was entirely unaffected by the temperature, like there was something warming in the inside. And as they kissed Draco felt like he was sharing some of that warmth, because there was a heat growing at the bottom of his spine and every time Potter’s hand shifted in his hair he felt a jolt of electricity run through him.

Potter’s free hand disentangled itself from Draco’s and came up to his face, caressing over his jaw, cheekbones, temples. When fingers pressed gently into the bruise on his cheek Draco groaned, unsure if it was because of the soreness or something else entirely. His own hands flew up, eager to explore the smooth skin of Potter’s face, to wind into his hair.

Then Draco’s fingertips grazed over the slightly raised skin of the scar on Potter’s forehead, and all of a sudden reality came crashing in. He, Draco Malfoy, was kissing Harry Potter, in public, in broad daylight, where anyone could see them at any moment. Horrified, he pulled away.

Potter looked almost annoyed. “What now?” he asked breathlessly.

“We can’t do this,” Draco gasped, panicking. He felt like he couldn’t breathe.

“I think we just did,” Potter pointed out unhelpfully.

“Someone could have seen!” Draco cried, hopelessly begging Potter to understand.

Potter shrugged. “So, let them. Everyone is always talking about me anyway.”

“You don’t understand. This, you and me, this can’t happen. Ever again. And no one, I mean no one, can ever find out,” Draco said, putting emphasis on every syllable.

Potter looked hurt. “So you hate me after all.”

“No, Potter, you colossal idiot. No one can find out, because of this—“ he pulled his sleeve up, revealing the Mark “—and this.” He tapped gently at the scar on Potter’s brow. “Do you have any idea what they would do to me if they found out?” Draco added quietly.

Realisation dawned in Potter’s eyes. Then, he jumped up unexpectedly, holding out a hand to Draco. “Come on,” he said.

“Come where?” Draco asked.

“We’re going to go see Dumbledore,” Potter announced brightly.

Draco felt the blood drain from his face. “No,” he whispered, jerking away form Potter’s hand.

Potter rolled his eyes. “Don’t be a coward, Draco. He’s not going to hurt you. I’m going to fix this and everything is going to be fine.”

Coming from anyone else, Draco would have laughed at that. But this was Harry Potter. The Boy Who Lived, over and over, despite the circumstances. So if anyone could fix it, it was him.

He reached up and took Potter’s hand.

END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's all, folks. Full disclosure, I didn't actually mean to end it here originally, but once I got to the end of this chapter I just realised that it was supposed to end there. Honestly I had zero control over any part of this process. I wrote this fic in like 6 days and I couldn't stop writing until it was done. 
> 
> That said, I have started a sequel, set two years after the Battle of Hogwarts, but I won't be posting that until after I get back from my trip, so late June the earliest.
> 
> Anyways, thanks for reading, hope you enjoyed my first ever published fic! :)


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